UNIVERSAL DONOR: MA VIE EN CROUTE
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Universal Donor
We can ill afford another Klendathu  feed it up!
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You are just a number to me! And that number is: PAGES UD MADE: My Books Page My Reviews Page My Reference Page My Music Page My Pictures My Store UD-RELATED PAGES: My LiveJournal My MySpace music page My Flickr page My del.icio.us page My Last.fm page My Amazon Wishlist HEAVY ROTATION Dan Deacon: Bromst Animal Collective: Merriweather Post Pavillion Bon Iver: For Emma, Forever Ago Vampire Weekend: Vampire Weekend Fleet Foxes: Fleet Foxes BLOGS ETC claude le monde nuncstans rock 'em stock 'em tomato nation postmodern drunkard tuckova 22 ghastly mess constintina total virility fuzzysquid drunken bee stacey nightmare elyse from ANTM stereolabrat dark side points jf_franklin 123 i love you READ NOW brotherhood 2.0 NOT BLOGS ETC qwantz (dinosaur comix) go fug yourself the burg cat and girl book of ratings married to the sea icanhascheezburger fire joe morgan fivethirtyeight.com READ NOW hospitality on parade WEIRD LOVE dead amusement pks craters! all content © 2002-2010 Jeremy Broomfield 
Hosted by: HostRocket.Com Comments by: YACCS PRAISE & REVIEWS "[UD] is a genius." --Christian Oates "[Claudia] is fucking awesome, and [UD] is a genius. And vice versa. You should all buy Fear Not." --Tricia Howey MOTTO egeo huic vigorum MY WRESTLING NAME Titan Gently MY PUNK NAME Razor Ection 
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Wednesday, April 30, 2003
No, I will not join Friendster. Please, everybody, stop inviting me to be your friendster. Isn't it enough that I'm already your friend? Don't we send emails to each other and gab on the phone for hours and have picnics and ride ponies and eat popsicles and beat up homeless people and go to the circus and watch sunsets and ride that fucking tandem bicycle up and down the street? Remember that day with the big red balloon? The one that was filled with pure Turkish heroin and almost exploded in your tummy as we went through the checkpoint? Wa ha ha! What fun! Who doesn't love that?
So what I'm asking is: why do I need to join some questionable community of online weirdos? Or, aren't I already a member of too many such communities, unstructured as they may be? Oh, everyone's got their Friendster justifications, their excuses, their afterthought analyses that explain that they don't really take it seriously, doncha know, it's just kinda "funny" in a detached sort of way, if'n yer hep and all, y'know, like it's fun to make fun of the people who actually take it seriously -- for fun. Serious Fun. But seriously not all that serious. Like: "oh UD, I'm so many billions of metalevels removed from the standard stratum of Friendster Discourse that I can only really speculate about the mindset of 'real' Friendster users, in the way that a microbiologist might speculate about the political leanings of protozoa (giggle guffaw)." Not that anybody said that, but they kinda did, in a steaming packet of email invites from weirdos with too much time on their hands and obviously without EXTREMELY IMPORTANT BLOGS TO ATTEND TO. Not that I'm judging you or anything -- some people get their kicks by raping babies! Please enjoy Friendster until you get bored and give it up, which from past experience I can predict will happen... now. Ok, good. Hey! You should all join this cool online community called Fiendster, which is a site where zombies can hang out and meet each other. Except that zombies don't care about meeting each other, so the website is as empty as a junkyard banjo. Zombies only care about one thing, and it ain't your sexual preference, podner. Say it with me: braaaaiinnns. 0 comments Tuesday, April 29, 2003
I used to hate sports, I really did. I hated sports, jocks, sports fans, sports magazines. I hated sports arenas and their stupid parking lots. I wrote a lengthy rant for a my never-published zine Vitriol about how gut-curdlingly revolted I was by people who pick up a perfectly good newspaper and flip directly to the sports section, bypassing everything that matters in the universe. I actually sneered at people who wore clothes with team logos on them. Yes, sneered. Who does that? What an insufferable, dogmatic ass I was.
So, you know, after high school and college, I didn't feel the need to set myself apart from any perceived mainstream, no, not so much. Like gym socks in a hamper, I mellowed. Jocks were no longer my enemies, they were allies, equals, compadres, defining me in contrast; the obverse of my reverse, the yin to my yang, the brawn to my brain, the frick to my frack. Would I look so awesome if there weren't so many goddamn idiots woof-woof-woofing at every flickering tube suspended above a Corona-slicked bar? Welcome, friends! You are dumb! Come stand next to me! Let's talk numbers! We love numbers! And we hate hippies! But here's what's not okay: sweatpants. Sweatpants are not acceptable outdoor wear, people. In the comfort of your ugly home, on laundry day or before naptime, you may wear your shapeless togs as you please, and may god have mercy on your soul. But if you have any remaining self-respect (hah), you will consider eating a handful of Xanax before poisoning the visual commons with your pinchless garments. Have you seen these new breeds of sweatpants that pretend to be, like, actual pants? Bleached-out downtown gym bunnies walking their dogs in flip-flops and "designer" sweats, butt-floss straps peeking insistently from drawstrung waists? What is this, Venice Beach? No! This is Manhattan! Don't tell me "oh, these are stretch workout shorts" or "breathable pilates activewear," BECAUSE ANYONE CAN SEE YOU ARE WEARING SWEATPANTS. Oh, god. Since when did sweatpants say anything other than "I have given up, I can no longer compete; bring me a gallon tub of Edy's Cookie Dough Ice Cream"? Here's a quarter: go rent a samurai to lop off your stupid head. 0 comments Thursday, April 24, 2003
Is it against the rules to complain about not having enough to do at work? You'd think I'd appreciate the free time to write, fuck around on the internet, and create gorgeous works of artful beauty, but the more freedom I have, the more perversely unmotivated I get. It's like stolen time is more valuable than free time.
I kept myself frantically busy during my vacation, trying really hard not to leave myself a moment to think. Those thinky moments are the worst. My parents always used to plan packed itineraries on our vacations, which I always thought were for the benefit of us kids, but now I see that they needed the blur of activity more than we did -- we would have been happy playing with hotel ice machines. At Disneyland, which was so gay that I burst into flames, parents dutifully dragged their rugrats around, draping them with merch and packing them full of sugar. (Hey, isn't it weird that there are no real animals at Disney, at all? Don't kids love animals, and aren't they the main characters of the Disney pantheon? Obviously the Disney cleanliness fetish doesn't allow for attractions that poo and pee, and in fact the bathrooms were so few, small, and piss-puddled that I kinda felt they were encouraging me to take my "business" elsewhere.) I barely had the energy to drag myself around the place, listlessly vectoring from one Designated Smoker's Ghetto to another -- and someday I'm supposed to bring my kids here? How will I possibly ever be that vivacious? I think all new parents are secretly issued a fifty-gallon drum of methamphetamine when they leave the hospital, to get them through the next eighteen years. Ugh. Disneyland is a giant pro-abortion ad. I didn't think I'd ever have sex again, but then I figured out how to fuck my computer. Then I designed an amusement park for adults, endlessly diverting and catering to all tastes, and I called it New York City. At least here, when I get tired, I can sit on the sidewalk and mumble to myself without some ankle-biter asking me if I'm supposed to be the pigeon lady from Mary Poppins. 0 comments Wednesday, April 23, 2003
I had a great time in California, even though California itself cannot be blamed for this fact. I won't bore you with a rundown of how New York and Los Angeles are different, except to say that everybody in California is a turd-gobbling idiot.
On Passover, I was taken by some cousins to the absolute worst seder ever, which if you've ever been to a seder you know that they're not exactly packed with laffs. But wow, is all. I've never been the most conservative traditionalist in any room, ever, but as I watched the Passover ritual get trampled under the flip-flopped feet of a legion of SoCal feel-gooders, I understood for a moment what it must feel like to be a reactionary in a world of assimilation. I felt like Tevye, except gayer, because instead of being surrounded by tough Russian christians with leather hats and broken vodka bottles, I was surrounded by a pillowy mass of smiling christian flab swaddled in ringspun cotton. Listen: 1) The event took place in a church. What? Ok, it was Unitarian, and therefore "church" may be more accurate, but still: a church, with crosses and shit. It was structured as a multi-culti, let's-all-pretend-to-try-to-understand-each-others'-cultures-for-an-hour-or-so kind of deal, with a pastor horning in on the haggadah with her little christian observations. About Jesus. And how he related to Passover. And how he died for our sins. 2) They ran out of wine before the second cup, substituting grape juice. Sure, it tasted better than Manischewitz, but that's hardly the point. Fuck. 3) The total time from sitting down to eating dinner was like forty minutes. The reading should last until you've got hemorrhoids and your stomach finishes digesting itself and starts nibbling at your liver. Forty minutes? That ain't suffering. Guh. 4) The dinner was potluck. Somebody brought rolls. 5) Pointing to the stage, the lady next to me whispered in my ear: "that's Susan up there. She used to be a... Hebrew, but she converted." 6) At the point where many people would choose to sing the solemn hymn "Go Down, Moses," a passel of bratlings crowded around the piano to sing this: "Oh Pharoah, Pharoah/Whoa, baby!/Let my people go/Yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah" to the tune of "Louie, Louie." I am so totally not shitting you. I would have choked them with gefilte fish and rubbed horseradish into their eyesockets, but NOBODY THOUGHT TO BRING ANY TO THE FUCKING SEDER. 0 comments Friday, April 11, 2003
Well, it's definitely raining, and I'm going to get very wet on the way to the airport, but since there aren't any locusts or frogs falling from the sky, I expect my plane to take off on time. I sure hope my pilots aren't total pussies about a little wind and water. The way I see it, the storm only makes a difference for the first two minutes of the flight, and after that we're above the clouds and weather. If they don't start taxiing on schedule, I'm gonna shout an update of our delay every minute: "FIVE MINUTES BEHIND SCHEDULE AND COUNTING! HURRY THE FUCK UP, YOU IMPERIALIST PIGFUCKERS!" and so on. That should speed things up a bit.
Gregor will be posting while I'm gone, and you should extend him every courtesy you would extend to a syphilitic hooker passed out on your buffet table. Catch you on the flipsizzle, you worthless fucktards. 0 comments Thursday, April 10, 2003
I am glad to hear that claudia has done her taxes already, because I have too, and now I have company in my club of smug, superior pedants. I know that some of you think that H&R Block is awesome, but they might as well be on the IRS's payroll for all the good they do you, the average retarded return-filer. What's your fucking problem, kids? Do you just hate money? Just send me your tax materials and a check for fifty bucks and I promise that you won't have to worry about your taxes for a while. Also please enclose a bottle of lighter fluid, some matches, a hatpin, and a lifelike voodoo doll of yourself. Also enclose a bag of your hot brains.
It makes me ill that I have become a responsible adult. Wasn't I always the slovenly spacecase who couldn't finish anything? The weird guy, the oddball genius who never studied but got straight As and never used deodorant? The mumbly, scab-eating geek with fruit in his ass? Except not really about the fruit? Once upon a time I was considered crazy -- albeit mostly by extremely square outer-borough coworkers ("UD, mang, you crazy") whose liberal notion of "crazy" encompassed any behavior not witnessed in Julia Roberts movies, Everybody Loves Raymond, or whatever normative entertainments the fatally unhip put in front of their eyes from 6pm to midnight -- but nowadays I am, by all accounts, the sanest member of my giant spiraling galaxy of hypomedicated friends. I never asked for this. If intelligence, competence, and sanity are tax-deductible, my adjusted gross income is negative one billion. 0 comments Tuesday, April 08, 2003
I didn't go to work yesterday because I felt good ol'-fashioned crappy. I was like eight years old the last time it snowed in April, and though I didn't have enough experience to see it as grossly anomalous, I could tell from the bemusement of the adults around me that some shit was wrong. The Yankees got snowed out yesterday. It's Bullshit.
I wouldn't be bitching about the weather except that the radio told me to expect a freaking nor'easter on Friday, which is supposed to be the day I step onto my plane and kiss you bitches goodbye for ten days. That would be awesome, because although I have really enjoyed showing up for flights two hours early only to slouch in lumbar-punishing waiting areas where I can't smoke, it would be a million times awesomer to wait out a giant storm for a whole day on the floor of Newark Airport's charming terminal -- without my goddamn tweezers! Airports are like living museums of rich people at their worst. If you want to see poor people at their worst, just go outside and open your eyes; it's about as hard as a "Hidden Pictures" game on the back of Highlights For Children. But rich people try so hard to look good, and it's only in airports that they get to looking really crusty. I don't know how airport security people can differentiate between a shoe-bombing terrorist and a pissed-off, hypercaffeinated investment banker who's had his flight postponed indefinitely. Well, considering that the shoe-bomber got on the plane, I'm assuming that they can't actually tell the difference. Which is awesome. Hell, take my tweezers! I don't care! Not that I think the storm will actually happen, because as everyone knows, you can't predict the weather. Somebody find me a chart that shows the exponential rise of meteorologist error as a function of time after a prediction, and I will bring you back a souvenir Los Angeles shot glass. I'll even bash it into your eye socket for you, too! 0 comments Friday, April 04, 2003
Everybody wants to travel, right? Except, like, Americans. No, that's not exactly right -- Americans are willing to travel but incapable of actually expanding their worldview to include any of the foreign cultures they ogle. The world is our petting zoo, and foreigners are the goats. The analogy is more germane than you'd think, because just like movie stars and lead singers, all foreigners are midgety little hairy people with beards. The organizing body of Europe is the Lollipop Guild, and they can chew through a mountain of tin cans faster than you could spit tobaccy at a jackrabbit!
I spent most of my last European vacation pointing out the differences between wherever I was and the U.S., which is annoying to foreigners who already know everything about us from watching Law & Order, which is in syndication on Betelgeuse already. Dick Wolf can wolf a dick. Then I got stuck in Copenhagen when my plane tickets didn't blah blah blah, and I started reading up on blah blah and learned so much blah blah shut up. This is what happens to people who travel. They assume that their stories are more interesting because they happened somewhere other than home, which is some wicked fagtarded bullshit. If you are a boring ass, just shut up forever, or you'll get slapped with a knife. All kidding aside, you really should see Paris once before you -- (ka-slice!) -- gglaargle!!! I should prepare you now for the fact that I'm going on vacation for 10 days from April 11-20. Put the cyanide down, kids. I'll try to wangle you some interim wit to keep you from evaporating. 0 comments Wednesday, April 02, 2003
I guess the New York anti-smoking law went into effect yesterday at 12:01am, but I didn't really notice. As far as I'm concerned, the last reason to go to bars has been removed. Say what? You heard me: bars are for fools. Aside from the obvious economic absurdity of paying up to ten bucks for a mixed drink, you can't see or hear the people you are with. This may be a benefit for those of you whose friends are ugly and stupid, but I move in a realm of glittering, beautiful geniuses. For socializing, we prefer a floodlit auditorium with a circle of chairs around a giant, communal ashtray, and we've each got lapel mics wired into a high-quality PA manned by an experienced sound man. His name is Jimmy (or Pete) and he is not available for weddings.
Smoking is bad, yes Dad, thank you for the absolute antithesis of a newsflash. Smokers know we are killing ourselves, we know that the weight of the butts that we've skillfully flicked into the gutter would collapse a major bridge. We know but we don't, can't care because a) we are addicted (which if you actaully don't understand what that means, you should, like, look it up or something, because it means we are addicted, you fat fuck!) and b) WE LOOK SO FUCKING COOL. Yes, shut up. We know we actually don't look so cool. And we smell terrible, oh we know! You should smell the genuine non-endangered coyote fur collar of my winter parka, it's like the smell of the Weaver/Moranis demon dogs at the end of Ghostbusters, which has got to be one of the best movies ever about anything, ever. Can you tell I haven't taken my Ritalin yet today? Well, cigarettes help me focus, Mr. Mayor, and you'd be doing the city a favor by reining in my aimless, unmedicated prattle by LETTING ME SMOKE ANYWHERE I WANT. I promise to make a generous donation to your assflesh. I have always been proud of this city's resistance to urban Californiafication. What the fuck is next? Right turns on red lights? Death before! Fuck! 0 comments |
OTHER REVIEWS: Scrabble NEW! LATEST BOOK REVIEWS: The Game Moneyball One-Upsmanship Siddhartha You need the Fear Not Guide to Life. Buy it already. ($4) Now available! The Broomfield Variations CD ($10) or go to The UD Store 
MY IMAGINARY GIRLFRIENDS Chan Marshall Rotem of the IDF Eleanor Friedberger Amy Goodman Bernardine Dohrn ('69) Maya Rudolph Joanna Newsom Imogen Heap Caroline Dhavernas Shana Rae Ray DISALLOWED FOREVER "I could tell you, but then I'd have to kill you!" - "from whence" - "...the exception that proves the rule" - any use of the question "spit or swallow?" - the phrase "drop trou" - fake-o reviewer verbs: "penned" for wrote "helmed" for directed "lensed" for whatever - "expat" - the euphemism "passed away" - pronouncing merci beaucoup as "mercy buckets!" (see also: "grassy-ass!") PET PEEVES "confinscated" - trying children "as adults" - "drownded" - misuse of reflexive pronouns, as when someone says "Please talk to Bob or myself." Come on people now. "Myself" is not just a fancy version of "me"! LEARN IT. - tattoos in the Courier font - any use of Comic Sans |